


Luminescence

by Wake



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Cover Art, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Femdom, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Genderswap, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Now With Cover Art, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26106145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wake/pseuds/Wake
Summary: Geralt of Rivia, she of the storied blades and the luminous eyes and the franklyfantasticbreasts, is both a great witcher and a good person.Jaskier already knows she’s not interested, but apparently, the rest of his idiotic primal male hindbrain hasn’t got the memo.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 321
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	Luminescence

**Author's Note:**

> Now with cover art! Many thanks to starrose17 for granting me permission to use her photo edit of genderbent Geralt: check out her tumblr [here](https://starrose17.tumblr.com/post/620986446562656256/genderbend-the-witcher-geralt/amp) for more.

When Jaskier first approaches Geralt, he doesn’t have his usual reasons in mind for walking up to a beautiful woman drinking alone in a tavern.  
  
No, he mostly just wants to know why she isn’t throwing bread at him like everyone else. While bending down to retrieve the hard rolls from the floor, his eye is caught by a dark form slouched over a mug of ale in the corner, unaware — or uncaring — of all the baying performance critics around her. (Animals, the lot of them.)  
  
In fact, he doesn’t even realise she’s a woman at all before he’s standing right in front of her table. Jaskier is initially taken aback by her fine features and long white locks. At first she seems to have a man’s bulk, but when he gets closer, he sees that thick leather armour covers her body from the neck down. She’s wearing some kind of silver pendant, two swords are sheathed behind her back, and she smells like worn leather and old sweat. Her expression is black.  
  
Jaskier’s instincts — honed by years of undeserved unpopularity as a travelling bard — scream at him: _this person does NOT want your company_ and _getting on her bad side is probably a Very Bad Idea_. However, his curiosity is louder than his caution.  
  
He ambles towards the strange woman. Golden eyes flash a warning at him from over her mug. “I love the way you just...sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says. He didn’t mean for the words to come out like a bad pick up line, but he’ll roll with it.

The woman growls at him, but doesn’t bite off his head. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Jaskier is undeterred. The pieces are all adding up: this warrior woman with white hair can only be the fabled Geralt of Rivia. He can almost _taste_ the waves of destiny rolling off her.

There’s a story to be had here, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to be the one to tell it.

***

He keeps following Geralt — even after she punches him in the balls.

Jaskier finds it hard to tell what she thinks about him. She’s inscrutable at the best of times, and — despite his best efforts to engage her in conversation — she mostly just ignores him. Does she think he’s some kind of perverted stalker? From the number of men he sees shouting lewd comments in the towns and villages they pass through (he wonders why she doesn’t punch _their_ delicates), he figures she must have come across a fair number of them in her time.

As they travel, he begins to understand her better. He doesn’t know how she became a witcher (and doesn’t dare to ask), but she clearly takes her job very seriously. He figures out that she’s been doing it for a lot longer than he’d even thought possible. Sometimes, when they sit, warming themselves next to the evening campfire with full bellies and good cheer, she would talk of wars and kings and cities that had gone to dust long ago; longer ago than the span of a human lifetime.

He also begins to see that no-one trusts a witcher; a female witcher, hardly anyone even respects.

When the leatherworker in Blackbough looks down his nose and flat-out refuses to repair the tear in Geralt’s jerkin (“It just ain’t natural. Wenches such as ye’self should be lookin’ for a husband, and nae for a fight.”), Geralt has to put a gloved hand over his mouth and pull him away from the stall. “I can fix it myself,” she says. 

And she does, making short work of the task with an old awl and some hand-prepared sinew, but Jaskier hates that she needs to. 

***

Later, he watches her refuse to take her contract money in Crow’s Perch even though she spent the better part of two days tracking alghouls and destroying their nests. “Keep it for the child,” she says to the ealdorman. The wide eyes of a little girl peek out from behind the ageing man’s legs.

Jaskier starts to understand the reasons why Geralt only makes time to think about the important things in life, which doesn’t include anyone’s opinion about her.

But even though Geralt is right not to pay them any heed, people’s opinions _do_ matter. So Jaskier makes it his newfound mission to improve her public image. He works tirelessly on new songs; songs in which she stars as the protagonist and not the villain. He also likes to think that he provides music and companionship during the long days on the road.

“The witcher and the bard. Travelling companions working together. As inseparable as lifelong allies should be!” Jaskier beams at Geralt, and strums a triumphant note on his lute.

Geralt grunts and continues to turn the spit-roasted rabbit over the little campfire. “Just stay out of the way.”

But she never says she wants him to leave.

***

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Come _on_ , Geralt,” Jaskier wheedles. “It’ll be fun. There’ll be music, and dancing, and so, _so_ many Nilfgaardian fruit tarts. Besides, you already agreed — and we need to leave in an hour.”

“Didn’t say I’d go wearing… that.” Geralt scowls, gesturing towards the white-and-gold bundle of brocade in Jaskier’s arms. “I’m supposed to be your bodyguard. How am I meant to fight if I’m wearing a curtain?”

“I have full confidence in your witcher-y martial prowess,” Jaskier says airily. “Plus, you need to blend in, and this is what all the noble ladies are wearing nowadays.”

“I’m not a noble lady.”

Jaskier ignores her. “This style is all the rage this season - do you know how much I spent getting this, and in your size? You’ll be the talk of the evening.”

“Thought I was supposed to be blending in,” Geralt grumbles, but takes the bundle and disappears behind the screen. He hears her muttering curses for a few minutes. Finally, she emerges and gives him a slow twirl. “Well, how do I look?”

Jaskier has no words. 

Geralt is a vision. The curves of her bust and hips are accentuated by the cream cloth embroidered with gold. Tiny gold beads draw attention to the sleeves, hem… and low neckline. Jaskier swallows and tries not to let his eyes drop. All of a sudden, he becomes aware that his travelling companion — his _friend_ — is a very, very attractive woman. He’s seen it before, in a very vague way, but… well. He’s never really _seen_ it before.

“Well?” Geralt is saying impatiently. “This thing is tight. If it’s not doing the job, I’m changing back. Blending in be damned—”

“No,” Jaskier says. “It looks… you look… good.”

Geralt eyes him suspiciously for a moment before huffing off to do her hair.

There’s a fight later, of course. Geralt manages to deal with the attackers in a flurry of white-and-gold skirts, legs, and teeth. The dress is ruined. But when she stands above their unconscious bodies in her ripped and muddied skirts, breathing hard, Jaskier still thinks she’s beautiful.

***

Jasier is no stranger to a good time. Some might call it a Reputation (with a capital R), but he prefers to call it a policy of taking all reasonable opportunities to invite others to share a good time with him.

However, he feels strangely hesitant about propositioning Geralt. It’s cliché, but he respects her and their friendship too much to take the risk. Would everything be ruined, might she pity him or be disgusted, if she doesn’t feel the same way about him?

Also, he just cannot picture it working. Hers is a world full of witchers and sorcerers and kings; Jaskier is just a humble bard. How would he go about it? Would someone as otherworldly as Geralt of Rivia even be interested in such… liaisons? 

One morning a few weeks after the ball, Jaskier is startled when Geralt comes downstairs with a girl on her arm. He knew the tavern they’re staying in doubles as a brothel, and for once, Geralt had forked out for a private room, but he just hadn’t put the two together.

He looks at the whore sidelong while spooning at his porridge. He hears her let out a soft, simpering giggle at something Geralt says while she clings to the witcher’s arm. She isn’t much to look at — just another mousy-haired waif, eighteen or so. Even so, she is very definitely a _she_. Which Jaskier is not.

Well, that puts a damper on things. Jaskier shovels the hot, plain porridge into his mouth, and tries to push his bubbling thoughts to the back of his mind.

***

Jaskier calls himself an optimist, but in the months that follow, he never sees Geralt with a man. Her brief dalliances on their adventures always seem to be with some smoky-eyed woman, and on the rare occasions she has enough coin to stay at the local brothel, she always asks for a girl. The one time a madame beckons forward a man — a tall, muscular specimen whose perfect physique makes Jaskier ashamed to call himself a member of the same species — Geralt barely even looks at him before waving him away.

That just about settles it, really. Jaskier is almost relieved: if a man like that can’t even get a second glance, he may as well stop hoping.

“It’s a good thing most of them prefer the charms of the male gender,” he says to Geralt one morning. They’ve stopped for a mid-morning break on the side of a road, and he’s still basking in the afterglow of a particularly wild night with a pair of giggling twin sisters. “And the poetry helps. I wouldn’t be able to take the competition, otherwise.”

She just grunts and continues to check Roach’s mane for fleas. For some reason, she’s been even shorter with him than usual for the whole morning.

“Really, I’m serious,” he says. “I doubt you’d ever have to spend your coin if you just made some small talk.”

“I’m no good at small talk.”

“It doesn’t have to be much. For example: how’s your day, I like your dress, aren’t you so grateful I saved you from that selkiemore? I mean, you’ve got that whole rugged, mysterious and sexy thing going on. If you really tried, I bet you could be getting any lady with even a remotely bi-curious bone in her body to fall all over you. Plus, who’d pass up the chance at a romance with a witcher?”

Geralt’s nostrils flare, and she abruptly swings back into the saddle. “I don’t need a romance, and the last thing I need is someone wanting one with me.” Before Jaskier manages to formulate a reaction to her stupid and over-dramatic statement, she’s ridden off.

Jaskier wonders what he said wrong.

***

Geralt is a good person. Jaskier is rapidly realising that he is not. 

He already knows she’s not interested, but apparently, the rest of his idiotic primal male hindbrain hasn’t got the memo. Months of adventuring have passed, many distractions and dalliances have come and gone, and yet, Jaskier has not moved on in the slightest.

As he stands behind the bathtub pouring buckets of warm water over Geralt’s blood-and-guts-matted long hair, he admits it to himself. Geralt is a perfect hero, rushing into battle to save a young girl who’d been about to be savaged by a pack of drowners. But Jaskier? He’s done nothing except to be as perverted as the oglers in the street. No, he’s worse.

“Thanks for doing this.” Geralt’s talking. He blinks and comes back to himself: he hopes he hasn’t missed anything important. “There’s no way I would have been able to get all this out myself.”

It’s a struggle to focus on the task at hand — or anything, really — when her bare breasts are. Right. There. He tries not to look, but the pink rosebuds of her nipples wink at him from the corners of his eyes. It’s a blessing that the water is so filthy that it hides the rest of her naked body.

“It’s no problem, Geralt,” he says. It’s a miracle he manages to sound like an actual human being, because he’s fairly certain that his brain function has degenerated to that of an ape.

She twists around to look at him, and everything around him disappears except for her molten amber eyes. “I mean it, Jaskier. Not everyone would do this. You’re a good friend.”

Jaskier is half-hard, and feels like an absolute charlatan.

***

It gets worse, after that.

He can’t stop fantasising. What would the rest of Geralt have looked like, if he’d been able to see? What would she look like standing naked under a waterfall, long hair streaming down the gleaming curve of her back, hands crossed and running down her body from her long neck, her breasts, her stomach, and down—

“Found the trail. Stay here until I come back.” Geralt sniffs the air and proceeds to follow the werewolf's trail in an unerring line. She has already drawn her silver sword. Her white hair has come loose from its tie, and it falls in a storm around her face. In the moonlight, it shines like spun silver.

After she disappears into the trees, Jaskier curses himself. He needs to pull himself together, and stop being such a cock-brained fool. To make himself feel useful, he tethers both their horses, makes a small campfire in the centre of the little forest clearing, and lays down both their bedrolls under the branches of a large oak tree, on opposite sides of the trunk.

When she comes back, she’s breathing heavily and covered in blood, but the fierce light of triumph shines in her eyes. She is a beautiful avenging spirit, sated after having taken her due.

And Jaskier _wants._

That night, he waits until she’s breathing deeply with the steady rhythm of sleep so she won’t hear him — or _smell_ him. Then, right there in the pale moonlight, he brings himself over the edge with his hand to the image of her kneeling over him, naked and snarling and regal, with that same look in her eyes.

***

In the weeks that follow, Jaskier just about manages to stop himself from unravelling at the seams. He can’t help being a little twitchy — what if she somehow _knows_? — and at one point, he thinks he sees Geralt eyeing him suspiciously. However, things soon settle back into their usual routine. They rescue a travelling merchant from bandits, befriend a godling in a swamp, and Jaskier debuts a new song. He eventually manages to push his feelings for Geralt back into the box they belong in.

But then Yennefer arrives, and everything changes.

Jaskier has never really liked Yennefer. Every few months or so, she sweeps into Geralt’s (and by association, Jaskier’s) life like an uninvited storm, stripping everything bare. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on between the two, but he finds something unnerving about the way she blows hot and cold: sometimes she’ll bring Geralt gifts and smile at her like the sun’s coming out; other times, she’s cold and purely business-like. Geralt seems used to it, but he doesn’t trust Yennefer as far as he can throw her (though, really, as far as Geralt can throw her).

But today, it’s _worse._

In most ways, Yennefer is the same as ever. She bursts into the Skellige tavern unannounced in a flurry of snow and wind, sitting herself down at his and Geralt’s table. She’s dressed in her usual black leather get-up – fashionable and form-fitting, unlike Geralt’s practical armour – and choker, and her customary sardonic smile still adorns her lips. However, there is one big difference.

Yennefer is somehow now a man.

“I’ve been waiting to try this new spell for ages, ” Yennefer says. She smiles, cat-quick, and wraps her new body around Geralt’s to whisper loudly in her ear. “Then I heard you were in town.”

Male-Yennefer looks like some kind of fairytale lordling, because of course she wouldn’t settle for being anything less than breathtakingly attractive. She — he? — is a little taller than Geralt, though just barely. Her male form is lithe and muscular in the places where her female form is curvy. She has cut her hair a little shorter, but the dark locks still fall to her shoulders. Jaskier doesn’t switch sides very often, but if he met this man at court without knowing it was Yennefer, he’d gladly get on his knees.

He watches Geralt to gauge her reaction. To his surprise and horror, her eyebrows are raised with interest, and she runs a calloused hand over Male-Yennefer’s flat chest. Jaskier’s blood boils. 

“Hmm. Been some time since I’ve done it like this.”

“Trust me, it’s fun once you get back into the swing of things.” Yennefer presses up behind her, and Geralt’s mouth parts into a small ‘O’.

And it’s then that Jaskier, finally and officially, melts into the ground. There’s no way he can stay here and watch Geralt be touched by another man, and for her to touch him, and imagine what it’d be like to touch her and what it’d be like if she touched _him_ —

He needs to get out.

“Well, erm… ladies? I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening,” he says, his voice around an octave higher than usual. He manages a decent courtly flourish. Both of them have stopped to look at him. “I trust you’ll be able to entertain yourselves.”

He flees while he still has a shred of dignity, and doesn’t dare look back.

***

In the morning, Jaskier re-evaluates. He finally needs to face up to certain truths that he’s been avoiding for months.

One: Geralt is not, as he’d thought, 100% lesbian. 

Two: Geralt has slept with, and clearly has enjoyed sleeping with, males who are not Jaskier.

Three: Jaskier has got it monumentally, stupidly bad for Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken.

Nothing about the situation has changed, of course. Why should it make a difference that the not-Jaskier people Geralt sleeps with also include men as well as women? It doesn’t make any sense that he should feel jealous _now_.

At the same time, everything has changed. All the excuses Jaskier has made to himself to convince himself that Geralt is somehow beyond his reach are suddenly stripped away. He now sees that there’s nothing that stands between a relationship between him and Geralt developing aside from Jaskier himself: his own fear, and the fact that Jaskier appears to be utterly beneath Geralt’s notice as anything other than a friend.

“Why shouldn’t it be Yennefer? What right does a common bard even have to feel possessive over _Geralt_ of fucking _Rivia_?” he wonders aloud. He groans and flops face first onto his bed.

***

Jaskier packs his things and rides out at dawn. He doesn’t have the courage to say goodbye, but he leaves a brief note.

He needs time to think. A small voice in his head tells him he’s just running away from his problems, the same way he’s always done, but as usual, he ignores it.

He goes to Novigrad and spends two weeks downtown trying to fuck Geralt of Rivia out of his system. He gets into trouble with another set of irate fathers, and the multitude of stroking hands and pendulous breasts and dripping cocks all blur together.

The only one he really remembers is a girl with pale hair who looks down at him with luminous eyes. His moan of “Geralt, _please,_ ” is muffled by her pussy as he strokes himself to completion.

He gets off, but he’s always left feeling tired and hollowed out in a way that he never felt before.

***

“Your songs are even more maudlin than usual, bard,” the innkeep says as the final note fades into silence.

Jaskier shrugs. “It suits my mood.” He has already started to pack up, counting the coins into his lute case and carefully placing his instrument inside. Like the reek of fish which permeates the tavern he was playing in, his audience has begun to dissipate into various dark corners.

“Next time, play something more upbeat. People spend more money when their spirits are high.” The innkeep offers him a bowl full of steaming hot stew. “Say, do you know the lady over there, sitting by the window?”

Jaskier follows the direction of his nod, and a knot forms in his chest. Yennefer of Vengerberg is a woman again, resplendent in a green velvet gown studded with winking pearls at the neck and sleeves. When she sees him looking, she stands up and starts heading his way. The innkeep slaps his arm and says, “Looks like you have business. I’ll keep the stew for you to have when you’re ready”, before wisely making a beeline back towards the bar. 

“Leave me alone,” he says when she’s standing in front of him.

Yennefer tsks. “No need to be so rude — I simply wanted to talk to you. You know what about.”

Jaskier laughs, a brittle and fractured thing, despite not having the faintest idea of what she’s talking about. “If you won’t go, I’m leaving.”

“I’m not wasting time on your foolish melodramatics.” Yennefer waves her hand in irritation. “Look, let’s talk outside. I can barely hear myself think in here.” With a swish of her cloak, she’s gone. Jaskier has no choice but to pick up his case and follow.

When they’re both staring at each other in the alleyway outside the tavern, he folds his arms. “Fine, I’m listening. What’s this about?”

“It’s about Geralt,” Yennefer says. “There’s something wrong.”

“Oh, is there some conflict amongst the greats?” he bites out. Yennefer’s eyebrows arch upwards.

“I don’t know what you think is going on between Geralt and me, but believe me, it isn’t what you think it is.”

“Are you, or are you not, fucking?”

“Yes. And no.” She rubs her nose. “Look, it’s complicated, all right? But we are very much not ‘together’, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jaskier isn’t sure if that was what he was asking, so he leaves it at that. “What’s wrong with Geralt?”

“She isn’t acting like herself.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he says, before he has time to think about it.

Uncharacteristically, she ignores the insult. “Tell me something. What’s really going on between you and Geralt?”

Jaskier bristles. “I’m not going to stand here and be tormented by you like a punching-bag in a knight’s courtyard. For a second, I thought you might be here for a different reason.” He starts to leave, but Yennefer catches his arm. Purple eyes search his face. Whatever she sees there makes her let go.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you.” Yennefer closes her eyes and rubs her eyelids with her gloved fingers. “From the way she talks about you, I thought... By the gods, you’re both idiots.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to say that, while he cared about Geralt a lot and thought she might be the most beautiful woman to walk the earth, of course he isn’t in love with her. 

Then he really thinks about it.

“Oh,” Jaskier says.

Yennefer shakes her head. “Men,” she says. “You’re all useless. But Geralt is just as bad. Do you know how moody she’s become since you left? Whenever anyone brings you up, she just ignores them. Also, she’s been taking up increasingly stupid contracts. Do you know I had to stop her from trying to wrestle a dragon?”

“She probably could have done it,” Jaskier says. His mind is racing. Could Geralt really…?

“Maybe,” Yennefer concedes. “But for just two hundred orens? She’d normally have talked it up, or laughed it off. She hasn’t lasted this long in her line of work by taking unnecessary risks. So why would she be doing it now?” She leans in. “Geralt _cares_ about you. I should know, because she used to care about me in that annoyingly needy way, before I got her to snap out of it.” 

Jaskier takes a breath in, then out. He meets Yennefer’s eyes with new purpose.

It’s a slim hope, but he’s nothing but an optimist.

***

Finding Geralt isn’t easy. 

In retrospect, maybe he could have waited for her to find him. At some point, she is bound to wonder where he is. But he can’t count on that happening, and he’s wasted enough time. No: he is going to find Geralt and win her over with the greatest song that any man has ever written for a woman. His song will live on in legend for centuries, passed on from bard to bard across all the nations. Even Geralt will swoon immediately when she hears it.

Yennefer tells him that his plan is shit, but still tells him where she last saw Geralt and gives him the orb anyway. “It will glow brighter depending on how close you are,” she says. “Be careful, because she’s going to be mad at you.”

“Why would she be mad?”

“Are you _actually_ an idiot?” Jaskier pretends not to hear her mutter “perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all” under her breath.

Jaskier is no witcher; he can’t follow Geralt directly through the monster-infested wildlands, so he has to stick to the roads with a hired bodyguard. That being the case, the orb can be quite difficult to interpret. It’s lucky for him that Geralt doesn’t seem to be moving around very quickly.

However, eventually he comes to a place where the orb glows so bright when he faces to the east that he knows that he has to leave the road. Geralt is close. With his bodyguard going ahead of him, he eventually comes to the dark entrance of a cave. Water drips down from the top of its moss-encrusted entrance, and roars and screams echo from deep inside.

Sven, his bodyguard, looks at him and says flatly, “You aren’t paying me anywhere near enough to fight whatever’s in there.”

“Don’t worry, Geralt will take care of things. We’ll just be waiting out here,” Jaskier says. He unslings the lute from his back in preparation.

Fifteen or so minutes later, Geralt bursts out of the cave, teeth bared and blue blood dripping from her unsheathed silver sword. Her eyes are black, and grey veins spiderweb across her face. She clutches some kind of monstrous feathered head in her off-hand, which also drips with blue blood.

It’s all Jaskier can do to not fall on the floor and weep at the sight of her.

Sven raises his sword. Jaskier begins to strum his lute.

“ _Oh-oh oh, the bard and the witcher fair_ …”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll collect your head too,” Geralt snarls. He immediately stops. “And you.” She directs this at Sven, whose shaking is making his outstretched sword wobble slightly. “Fuck off.”

Sven looks at Jaskier, who nods. He digs in his coat and passes a coin pouch over. “The rest of the payment, as promised. I’ll be fine from now on.”

Sven looks dubious, but snatches up the pouch and makes a hasty retreat back towards the road they’d just come from. Geralt’s unblinking black eyes follow him as he goes.

After he’s gone, Geralt turns her stare onto Jaskier. The black pits are quite disconcerting. Jaskier gives her a weak smile.

“Do I have permission to finish my song now? It really is a very good one — “

“Shut up. You don’t get to talk until I say so.” Geralt abruptly pivots round and starts stalking off into the woods. Jaskier has to do a little jog to follow. They arrive at a clearing where Roach is tethered to a tree. After stroking along her muzzle for about a minute, Geralt ties the monstrous head to her saddlebags and mounts her. She turns to the direction of the road and sets a quick walking pace, without even a glance back at Jaskier.

Jaskier continues to jog behind. He’s happy to give Geralt as much time as she needs.

***

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Jaskier is taken by surprise when Geralt finally decides to speak. He’s been jogging for gods know how long now. His silk doublet is soaked with his sweat and he’s starting to get a stitch in his side, but he’d be damned before he speaks up to complain. 

“I —”

“Why did you even bother coming back?”

“Because. I wanted to. Be with you. Again.” Jaskier wishes he were fitter. The amount he’s wheezing is pathetic.

Geralt slows down, looking thrown. Jaskier is just relieved that the pace has reduced to a manageable walk. The only sounds are the jingles and slaps of bridle against leather, the wind rustling through the trees and long grasses at the side of the road, and Jaskier’s ragged breaths.

“So why did you leave?” He can’t see more than the profile of her face — she doesn’t turn at all from her position atop Roach, staring straight ahead — but her voice cracks slightly. “I thought — I thought we had something good going on.”

“We did. We still do, I hope.” Jaskier’s heart is in his throat.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

He can’t let that stand, so he clears his throat — and takes the plunge. “On the contrary, I do care. Very, very much.”

Geralt rides on in silence for a while as she digests this. “How long?”

“Around a year, now.” Fuck, had it been that long? “I just didn’t say anything because — well, I was scared. And I was stupid. And until Yennefer came to see me, I didn’t think you might also...well, you’re _you_ , and I’m just me.” He curses at himself. He’d prepared a bloody song. Why does his fabled eloquence have to fail him _now_?

Another few moments of silence. Then finally: “You’re an idiot,” Geralt says, but there isn’t any heat behind it.

Jaskier exhales with a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “True, but in all fairness to me, you aren’t exactly the easiest person to read.”

“Never said I wanted you to go, did I?”

“That isn’t the same as telling me you wanted me to stay.” _Or that you care about me_ , he thinks.

“I’m not good with words like you,” Geralt says. She turns round in the saddle to look down at Jaskier. Her cat-like eyes have returned to their normal amber-gold, and they burned with an intensity he couldn’t bear to look at for too long, even though he had to. “Knew you wanted me from the beginning. But I thought you just wanted sex rather than...anything else, and I prefer not to do that kind of thing with men.” 

“I thought you weren’t interested in men at all.”

“Women are just easier.” She pauses, seeming to struggle for the right words. “Just more likely to see a female witcher as a person rather than as an exotic novelty. Some kind of challenge for them to conquer.”

Jaskier is not a woman or a witcher, but after travelling with Geralt for so long, he thinks he understands a little better now. It makes him feel a little sad. “I certainly never saw you that way.”

“I think I always knew that,” she says. “But when you didn’t say anything, I assumed you couldn’t be interested. And even if you were, if you _are..._ well. Being involved with a witcher is the last thing I’d wish on anyone I give a shit about.”

Jaskier needs a moment to process this. “Why...but...what...that is the most monumentally, astronomically, _egregiously_ stupid statement anyone has ever uttered.”

Geralt sets her jaw and doesn’t look at him.

“Look at me,” he says softly; and she does, her eyes wet and unguarded. “There is nothing I’d like more than to be involved with _this_ witcher, for as long as she’ll have me.”

Geralt looks away again. They ride forward together in silence until the road winds around to a small town. The setting sun bathes the last few townspeople finishing their last tasks for the day before retiring for the evening in a warm pink glow. Eventually she murmurs, “I’m not strong enough to say no.” She pauses. “But you’ll get hurt, and you’ll regret it. Always happens.”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier says. “It’ll be worth it.”

And he resolves to show her the truth of that, no matter how long it takes.

***

They book one room at the inn for the night. The innkeeper doesn’t even bat an eyelid at Geralt’s bloodied appearance — mercenaries and witchers are a common sight in these parts — though she does quirk a quizzical eyebrow at Jaskier. He just shrugs. It’s not like he has any idea as to what he’s doing either.

Jaskier’s palms are sweaty as he follows Geralt in ascending the creaking steps of the inn. They’ve shared a room before, but things are different now. It’s as if the air between them has drawn tight and is liable to snap at any moment. 

If he steps even a foot closer towards her, he's afraid he’ll lose control too soon.

The room is small but comfortable-looking; there’s a wooden bed with a sturdy chest at its foot, and a fire crackles in the hearth. They put down their packs and the door clicks shut. She turns toward him. The hard lines of her face look strangely vulnerable; the warm firelight flickers over the old scar across her left eye. There’s an unspoken question in her eyes.

Jaskier verbalises it. They have danced around for long enough. “So, what’s happening now?”

Instead of answering, she pulls off her black leather gloves slowly — starting with the left, then the right — and arrests him with a dark, unblinking gaze. 

Her movements are efficient and unhurried, as if she’s simply undressing herself in private after a long day of hard riding. She unbuckles the leather straps across her chest and around her waist, then reaches behind her back and removes the attached scabbards. Both the silver and steel swords are laid down carefully on the floor next to the bed. 

Next come the knee-high boots and the silver-studded leather guards on her arms, legs and shoulders. Finally, Geralt removes the heavy leather vest until she’s standing in front of him in just a plain shirt and breeches. She crosses her arms across her breasts. “Well?” she says, her voice raw.

It’s already hard for him to breathe. “My turn. Feel free to lie down,” he adds as an afterthought. She watches him as she stretches herself out across the bed, feline-like.

Jaskier’s clothes are significantly easier to remove than Geralt’s. He can feel a self-conscious flush starting when he shrugs off his dark blue brocade jacket and shucks off his boots. However, he quickly grows more comfortable, and makes a bit of a show of unlacing his shirt and breeches. Soon he’s in nothing but his smallclothes: his half-erect cock strains against the thin white cotton.

He keeps his eyes on Geralt’s the whole time: her cat-like pupils are so dilated that her eyes are more black than gold. “Come here,” she growls. “Kneel at the end of the bed.”

Jaskier whimpers at the order, complying without a word. He is _definitely_ on board with this.

Geralt sits up and inches closer until they’re breathing into each others’ faces, noses almost touching. He stops breathing. He can feel the warmth of her body radiating against his bare chest. She brings her hand up to his face and gently traces her right thumb along the line of his jaw, before cradling his chin with her fingers. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” he chokes. He’s possibly never been more sure about anything in his life.

The kiss starts off as gently as the soft pressure of her thumb. Jaskier closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness of her warm lips. Soon, its intensity grows into something harder, fiercer, more primal; when Geralt’s tongue demands entrance against his trembling lips, he parts them willingly. Liquid fire rushes through his veins. He can’t think straight; his face burns hot, and his heart pounds heavy in his chest. He is the first to gasp for air. “ _Geralt.”_

Geralt’s breathing is heavy too, and her eyes are molten and wild. She grips his jaw with both hands, the callouses rough against his skin. “If you want, we can stop. It isn’t too late to change your mind. We can take it slow.”

“Geralt, if you don’t take off your clothes and touch me right now, I _swear_ — I will explode. My balls will shrivel and fall off. Then you’ll find me dead in a ditch, and it’ll all be your fault.”

Her mouth quirks with suppressed laughter, although he doesn’t see what’s so funny about the very real possibility of his untimely demise. “I suppose we can’t have that.” And without further ado, she removes the rest of her clothing.

It isn’t technically the first time he’s seen Geralt naked, but it’s the first time he allows himself to look. Miles and miles of pale skin are adorned with scars like badges of honour which mark her countless victories, and Geralt’s toned body ripples with the superhuman strength that Jaskier knows first-hand. Above it all, her unbound pale hair spills around her head like a halo. 

She’s transcendent; a goddess not fit for mortal eyes. He feels raw under the intensity of that golden stare. He’s unworthy, and yet he still reaches out to run a worshipful hand over the curved planes of her hips and her breasts.

She stops him. “If we’re doing this, I have two rules,” she says. “One: you do what I say. Two: you tell me straight away if anything makes you feel uncomfortable. Is that clear with you?”

“Crystal clear,” Jaskier says, swallowing. Blood is rushing down south so fast that he feels a little light-headed.

“Good,” Geralt says. She gives him a rare smile: benevolent; an approving angel. Jaskier’s heart stops. “Now. I want to taste your cock.”

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier groans. “Have mercy on a poor bard.”

“Sit down on the edge of the bed.” When Jaskier complies, Geralt rises from the bed and sinks to her knees on the floor before him. Jaskier’s pretty sure he’s dead and this is the afterlife he did nothing to deserve. With surprising gentleness, she eases his smallclothes down to reveal the head of his erect, aching cock, an obscene trail of pre-cum sticking between it and the cotton.

“Don’t touch my hair. Keep your hands on the bed, and stay as still as possible.” And in one smooth motion, she takes him into her mouth.

Jaskier gasps at the sudden wet heat; it’s all he can do to grasp at the edge of the mattress for dear life, fingers tangling in the rough linen sheets and knuckles turning white. Geralt starts to bob her head up and down his length, never breaking eye contact. Between the eyes that strip him raw, hooded and dark with desire, and the _filthy_ way her cheeks hollow out around his cock, he almost comes undone.

When he’s about to reach the edge, Geralt stops. He gasps with need. “Geralt, _please._ ”

“Not yet,” she says. Her cheeks are flushed and her wet lips are very, very red. She climbs back up onto the bed and spreads herself out, flat on her back. “Your mouth. My cunt. Right now.”

Jaskier is all too happy to oblige — but not before taking a little detour. On his hands and knees, he scoots up the bed over her body until their eyes are level. She arches a pale eyebrow at him as if to say: _well, what are you waiting for?_

His thoughts are a mess, but one instinct remains: he needs to _show_ Geralt how beautiful she is. What she means to him.

He starts by kissing her sharply elegant collarbones, ghosting his breath along her neck and making her shiver. She smells faintly of soap and leather, as well as the scent that’s uniquely _Geralt._ Jaskier travels down until he reaches the top of her left breast, small and perky and perfect, and swirls his tongue around her nipple, until she’s arching her chest into his face. He takes her left nipple into his mouth, while he reaches out and rolls her right one between his thumb and forefinger. Geralt lets out a sharp exhale and reaches over to stroke his hair. 

Encouraged by this, Jaskier continues to mouth a trail across the hard planes of her stomach, running his tongue gently over the ridges of every scar he passes, and down until he’s kissing the smooth insides of Geralt’s thighs.

Geralt’s grip on his hair tightens into a slightly painful pull, and Jaskier should _not_ be as into that as he is. “Enough,” she says roughly. “Should have known you’d try to get clever with that mouth of yours.”

Jaskier raises his head and gives her his most wicked smile. “Didn’t hear you complaining, did I?”

“I _said_ , get your mouth on my cunt.” And she yanks his head down. She’s already _soaking_ _._

Jaskier puts every ounce of his considerable experience to use. He flattens his tongue and starts by licking a long, experimental stripe, gradually increasing the pressure until she’s squirming beneath him. Geralt moans when he starts to circle her clit with his tongue. “Keep doing that,” she pants. “Suck on it a little — but gently.”

His only thought is, _your wish is my command._

Geralt’s first orgasm causes her to tremble under Jaskier’s mouth. He starts to ease up, but she holds him tight against her and bares her teeth. “Don’t you _dare_ stop. _Gods_ , you’re good at that. Fingers too, now.”

“Can I touch myself too?” he pants. He might actually cry if she says no.

“Yes. But you’ll come inside me.”

Jaskier moans into Geralt’s pussy and resumes his attention on her clit. She is going to _destroy_ him.

He takes his impossibly hard, weeping cock in one hand, while using the other hand to stretch her open with his fingers. She’s so wet that it doesn’t take long to get to three, and before long, she’s coming again. Jaskier’s world has narrowed to a blissful blur consisting only of the heat of his cock, the pussy in front of him, and Geralt’s unyielding, near-painful grip on his hair. For the first time he can remember, the space between his ears hums quietly with a static sort of peace.

“You’re being such a _good boy_ ,” she says, and he almost comes right then. “Lie down on the bed. I want to ride you.”

In a daze, Jaskier does as he’s told. Geralt mounts him in one forceful motion, and immediately sets a brutal pace. Jaskier can do nothing but lie there and take it, moaning. She’s so fucking hot and _tight_ around him. “Geralt, _Geralt."_ His voice is a broken chant.

“Got any idea how long I’ve imagined this? Having you beneath me, moaning my name?” Geralt growls low into his ear. She sounds just as wrecked as he feels. “You’re _mine_.”

He almost loses it — again — but just about manages to hold on for her. He can tell she’s close — the rhythm of her hips is stuttering a little, now, and her walls are tightening around him. He reaches over to rub her clit, causing her mouth to fall open in a silent scream. Suddenly, she increases the pace and force of her thrusts into a frenzy and she places a hand around the smooth curve of his throat. She bares her teeth; her eyes are blown black with desire, and he can’t look away. It’s too much.

Her snarl rumbles against his bones: “Come for me. Now.”

Jaskier sees white as his world shatters into a thousand pieces of light. A strangled cry is forced from his throat as he _pulses_ inside her. He cries out as she clenches tight above and around him: a few moments later, she’s coming as well; back arched and silver mane tossed back in passion, spasming around him in waves of cascading, luminescent pleasure.

***

“You never got to hear my song,” Jaskier says later, mournfully, as he spoons against her in the bed. The sweat has cooled off from his skin by now, and he basks in the warmth of the hearth-fire and the gentle heat of Geralt’s body.

Geralt gives a soft grunt from her position curled up inside the circle of his arms. Her eyes are closed. “Was it any good?”

“To be honest, the song was a bit shit. But it’s the principle of the thing.”

“You can sing it on the road for me tomorrow, if you like.” Geralt’s breathing slowly eases into the steady rhythm of sleep. Her soft hair spills its silver across his skin.

Jaskier strokes it tenderly, and smiles. Yes, he thinks. Yes, he really would like that.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, [littlestqr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlestqr), for all her help and support.
> 
> This is my first work on AO3, and I'm very excited to finally be able to share it with you all. I have a few other fics in the pipeline (including a sequel to this one due to the Serious Lack of genderswapped Geraskier), so watch this space.
> 
> If you enjoyed reading and have a spare moment to leave kudos/comments, I'd really appreciate your feedback!


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